Chapter 4

Christine was not exactly sure how much time had passed since they had entered the black corridor, but it must have been no more than fifteen minutes or so before Erik set her down in one quick movement. The ground was not jagged here – in fact, the rock was smooth, although bumpy and uneven.

She reached out to the wall, running her hands over it to orient herself in the dizzying blackness. Moments later though, a bright flame flared to life, illuminating a natural cave. The walls rose up to a point in the ceiling, and a tiny thread of water trickled down to run away through an unseen gap in the rocks.

The cave was very small, about half the size of than her own dressing room. There were several crates pushed up against the far side of the cave. One of them was open, and she saw that Erik had pulled from it a thick candle and lit it with a little box of matches.

He knelt beside the crate, pulling out more candles and lighting them. The cave grew brighter, and Erik stood up, the candles casting a long sinister shadow of him on the ground, making him look almost menacing.

"We'll be staying here tonight," he said slowly, glancing around him. He settled onto the floor in one fluid motion, crossing his legs gracefully.

Christine followed suite, kneeling down on the hard ground and tucking her legs under her and to the side and spreading her dress over them modestly.

"Still concerned about decorum, I see," Erik said suddenly, "Even under these circumstances?"

She glanced up at him, sitting with his cloak spread about him like a soft black shadow. "What?"

He settled back against the wall, not losing his poise. Amazing, Christine thought, how someone with a wrinkled shirt and such disheveled hair could still retain a sort of elegance.

"Nobody is here to see you now," he replied.

She frowned. "I know that."

"Then you don't need to be proper."

She looked down at her dress, spread carefully over her legs. The action had been automatic, she hadn't even thought before she'd done it. "I was just – "

"It doesn't matter." Erik cut her off. "You must sleep now, as uncomfortable as it may be."

She stared at him, bewildered. Why this sudden change of attitude? Minutes before he had carried her in his arms to prevent her hurting her feet. Now, it seemed, with entering the cave he had adopted almost a chilly manner.

"Have I… done something wrong?" she asked cautiously.

"No," he said curtly, but she sensed an underlying sadness in that one word.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, I am alright," he replied.

"Your voice sounds… distressed."

"Distressed? Why should I be distressed? After all, you're just trying to save your precious Vicomte, nothing distressing about that at all." The moment he said the words, he wished he could snatch them out of the air and push them back into his mouth.

Christine gasped and stared at him. "What?"

He didn't say anything, just gazed off at the little stream of water tracing down the wall.

"Its perfectly alright my dear, you may confess it now." All his doubts were pouring out from his lips and it seemed he was powerless to stop them. "Yes, your Vicomte is safe, you can tell the truth."

Christine's mouth gaped open, and she snapped it shut, gritting her teeth in an attempt to hold back tears. "You… you must know that's not true." He didn't reply. "Erik?"

He passed his hand over his face with a weary sigh. "Try to sleep."

"Just… just because you have been rejected in the past doesn't mean you must doubt any good thing that happens to you," she blurted.

"Go to sleep."

"Or maybe I am not a good thing?"

"Go to sleep!"

She turned away, tears stinging her eyes and her jaw tense with anger. She curled up on the cold unforgiving ground, her back to Erik, her body close to the wall. Her muscles, used to her soft welcoming bed, soon cried out in discomfort, but she refused to let Erik see her move again.

Only minutes before, he had been an emotional wreck, a distraught, ruined man at the thought of her leaving him. For some reason she could not yet fully discern, she had chosen him – accepted the intense, powerful, passionate, and often-violent Opera Ghost over the kind, gentle, sunny Raoul. Now Erik seemed to have retreated behind an invisible wall of glowering sarcasm, and his cutting comments were almost enough to drive her back to Raoul's arms… almost. But she knew in her gut that even if he were here, her choice would remain the same. God help her, she did not know why. It was the Vicomte who had temporarily captivated her naïve heart; but it was Erik who had always owned her heart, mind, and soul.

After what seemed forever she passed into a fitful sleep. The smooth floor seemed to sprout daggers and jab them into her, no matter how she turned. Her body was wracked with shivers, and the cold seemed to seep through her bones, her dress remaining damp because of it. Somehow in the midst of her half-sleep, she felt a warmth settle round her like a soft cloud, and she recognized the touch of Erik's cloak before she drifted back into dreams.